Archive of Our Own ^beta

The van hummed steadily along the dimly lit road, streetlights casting brief flashes of yellow across the cracked blacktop. The air inside felt heavy, despite Present Mic’s usual torrent of chatter from the driver’s seat. His voice ricocheted off the metal interior like it was a live radio broadcast—cheerful, booming, and entirely unfitting for how drained the two passengers in the back were.

Bakugou sat slouched in his seat, arms crossed, gaze locked on the window as scenery blurred past. The Remedial Course had been brutal today—more drills, less theory, and a lot more time in the freezing wind. But his muscles only ached in the good way, that post-training burn he could push through without a second thought. It meant he was going to sleep well tonight. 

Todoroki, on the other hand, was even quieter than usual.

Not that he was ever talkative, but the guy had a tendency to at least acknowledge Present Mic or whoever was sacked with chaperoning them on that particular day. On the way there, he was noticeably more responsive. But by the end of the day, a faint grunt here, a deadpan remark there was all you'd get out of the guy; only ever enough to prove he was still paying attention and never to contribute much to conversation.

Tonight? Nothing. Just that rigid posture in the corner seat, head tipped slightly toward the window.

Bakugou didn’t think much of it at first. Maybe Icyhot was sulking about something again. Maybe he was just tired. They’d all been there before.

But when Mic cracked a particularly bad joke about “hero homework” and Todoroki didn’t so much as blink, something small and annoying twisted in Bakugou’s gut.

He shoved the feeling down though. If Todoroki wanted to be antisocial, that was his business. If anything, the less chatting Bakugou was forced to try and drown out the better.

Well, maybe not, actually, because this was the longest the ride back from Remedial Lessons has ever felt. 

It felt like he had already spent an eternity cooped up in that car with those two weirdos by the time the van finally rolled into the familiar UA parking lot, tires crunching softly over the gravel as they pulled to a stop. The dorm buildings loomed ahead, warm light spilling from a few windows into the cold evening air. Without wasting time, not even to bid Present Mic goodnight or thank him for the ride (not that he would've even if he wasn't in a rush to scarf down some dinner, shower, and hit the hay) Bakugou yanked the sliding door open and hopped out, the breeze immediately biting at his face.

He took two steps toward the entrance before realizing there weren’t any footsteps following him.

He turned, irritation already bubbling up.

Peeking back through his window, he spotted Todoroki still slouched in his seat.

Bakugou’s scowl deepened.

"The hell are you doing? Let’s go," he barked.

Nothing.

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. 

The thing is, he thought Todoroki was a light sleeper. Bakugou had seen him jolt awake at the faintest sounds in the common room before. And on the odd couple of times Todoroki’s brevity after Remedial Classes had actually led to him nodding off, he always somehow woke up as soon as they pulled into campus. 

So why the hell wasn’t he moving now? Was he really that beat from class? 

Pathetic.  

He tore his door back open and leaned into the van. "Hey, idiot! We’re here!"

Still no response.

It was then that Bakugou realized, admittedly belatedly, that Todoroki's position had changed; he was now fully slumped forward, head almost hanging over his knees. 

Geez. Bakugou has never seen him sleep this deeply before. The fucker was totally tanked.

Bakugou clicked his tongue, shoving himself further inside the van. “Oi, quit screwing around.”

He reached out and gave Todoroki’s shoulder a shake that was far from gentle.

Still no reaction—just a sluggish tilt of the head as he seemed to sag even further, like gravity had a stronger grip on him than usual.

Bakugou’s irritation started to dissolve, replaced with something heavier in his chest—a weight he couldn’t quite name yet or maybe wouldn't. It was the kind of shift that made his voice catch for a split second, the subtle instinct that something was seriously off tugging at the back of his mind.

“IcyHot,” he said again, quieter this time, but sharper.

He grabbed him again and tugged him upright, and that’s when he froze.

Heat.

It hit him instantly this time, like his palm had landed against the side of a space heater. Somehow he'd missed it before, but now it was obvious; not the subtle warmth of someone just coming in from the cold, but a deep, unnatural heat radiating through Todoroki’s blazer.

It was so wrong it made Bakugou wrenched his fingers away like he'd been burned.

“What the hell…”

When he looked back at Todoroki's face, he suddenly felt cold. 

Under the dim interior light, he caught the flushed hue of Todoroki’s cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline. His breathing was shallow and laboured, too—like every inhale was a little harder than it should’ve been.

Present Mic’s voice cut in from the front. “What’s the hold-up back there, little listeners?”

Bakugou’s head snapped up. “I don't..." He frowned. "There’s something wrong with him.”

In seconds, the driver’s seat squeaked and Present Mic was at Todoroki's door, pulling it open with an abrupt urgency.

His usual animated grin was nowhere in sight, his brows were drawn tight, eyes darting over Todoroki’s flushed face. “Whoa—hey, kid, you alright?”

Without hesitation, he reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Todoroki’s forehead, only to recoil slightly at the heat emanating off him much like Bakugou had.

Mic crouched down in the open door, "Todoroki, it's Mic-sensei. Can you hear me?"

Todoroki’s eyes fluttered halfway open, unfocused. His lips parted like he was going to answer, but only a faint, mumbled sound made it out.

Mic swore under his breath. Clearly the man wasn't used to not being heard. 

“We’re taking him to Recovery Girl. Now.”

Bakugou stayed half-crouched in the cramped space, replacing a steadying hand to Todoroki’s shoulder, keeping him from slumping back over after Mic let go. The heat radiating off him hadn’t lessened. If anything, it felt like it was building by the second.

Mic slid the door shut and hurried back to the driver’s seat, already pulling out his phone. Bakugou didn’t let go, stretching to close his own door single handed. He didn't bother buckling himself back in as the van jerked forward again, heading toward the main building.

Instead, he kept his eyes on Todoroki, that strange cold knot in his gut growing tighter with every shallow breath the other boy took.

The van skidded to a sharp stop in front of the main building, tires squealing faintly against the pavement. The sudden halt jolted Bakugou forward, his hand instinctively tightening on Todoroki’s shoulder to keep him steady. The kid barely reacted—just a faint sway, his head falling toward the floor.

Present Mic was already out of the driver’s seat before the engine finished rattling down, moving fast for someone who usually took his time, gliding through the halls of UA to the rhythm of whatever tune he was whistling.

Bakugou hesitated for a fraction of a second before he let go of Todoroki so he could shov his own door open and round the van in a few quick strides, meeting Mic on the other side.

His teacher pulled the side door open again, and for a heartbeat they just stared at Todoroki’s slouched form. The warm, yellow light spilling out from the building made his pallor stand out all the more, the flush along his cheeks now looking uncomfortably fever-bright.

“Alright,” Mic muttered, voice low and determined, “one arm each.”

For once, Bakugou didn’t argue about being told what to do.

Between them, they managed to haul him out of the seat. Bakugou slipped Todoroki’s left arm over his shoulder while Mic took the right. But Mic’s ridiculous height and the couple of centimetres Todoroki had on Bakugou made the balance awkward. Even when they were finally balanced enough to start moving faster, it took a lot of effort from Bakugou to keep from listing to the side (something that agitated Bakugou beyond belief).

After only a few paces, Bakugou felt the change. Subtle at first, just a slightly stronger lean into his side. But then Todoroki’s entire frame seemed to give way, his weight dragging more heavily until it was like Bakugou was carrying him rather than supporting him.

Then his knees buckled completely, refusing to lock, like they weren’t getting the message from his brain anymore, and his boots caught limply against the floor with every faltering step.

“Tch—dammit!” Bakugou snapped, stopping short. “Alright, back off. This isn’t working.”

Mic blinked. “Huh?”

“I said back off!” Bakugou growled, already pulling Todoroki off their teacher.

He crouched low, adjusting Todoroki's position before sliding one arm under the boy's knees and the other behind his back, lifting him clean off the ground like he weighed nothing.

The heat pouring through Todoroki’s uniform was immediate, searing against Bakugou’s forearms and torso.

Mic stepped back, letting Bakugou take the lead. They made quick work of the last stretch to Recovery Girl’s office, Bakugou’s jaw clenched the whole way.

He wasn’t expecting to find Aizawa waiting at the door, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

Recovery girl was next to him, though as soon as she saw them, she was ushering everyone inside, with the rushed and entirely unhelpful explanation to anyone who had working eyes (which is all of them): "I contacted Aizawa."

Of course the old hag had called him. And of course the man had shown up.

It wasn't everyday one of his students suddenly went unresponsive in a feverish stupor in the back of a car. Especially not a student like Todoroki. It's weird, but the guy had always seemed sort of untouchable—at least in the ways normal people aren't. And it's like Bakugou is just now realizing that Todoroki could get sick just like everyone else.

Yes, because of his magical, unfairly handy temperature regulating abilities (and now that he's using his fire, that exploit remains even in combat). But also because the guy just seemed so... above this kind of thing. 

And yes, Bakugou sees how ridiculous that is now. Because Todoroki is human and he's bound to get sick or overexert himself or whatever the hell had just happened—or is happening—or—

Bakugou didn’t even notice he’d paused, lost in thought, until Aizawa’s chilly gaze flicked to the still figure in his arms.

“Where do you want him?” Bakugou asked, voice rough.

Recovery Girl pointed to a cot without looking up from prepping supplies. “Over there.”

Bakugou moved fast, setting Todoroki down with far more care than his expression betrayed.

Recovery Girl was already at Todoroki’s side before Bakugou had even straightened up. Her hands moved with the efficiency of someone who’d seen every possible way a student could walk—or be carried—through her door. She pressed the back of her hand to Todoroki’s forehead, then to his cheek, frowning slightly at the heat pouring off him.

“Severe fever,” she murmured, almost to herself. “And by the look of him… overexertion. Possibly dehydration too.”

Bakugou stood stiffly at the foot of the cot, arms crossed tight. His eyes kept darting to Todoroki, who lay far too still, breaths short and uneven. The faint flush on his face seemed even deeper under the infirmary lights.

“What happened?” Recovery Girl asked without glancing up, reaching for her stethoscope.

“Nothing,” Bakugou said quickly. “He was fine after the lesson. Then in the van, he just… stopped responding. Burning up like this.”

Mic, leaning against the wall, added, “No I wouldn't say he was fine. He looked exhausted even before we left the training grounds. And he wasn't talking much to begin with.... I figured he was just worn out.”

Aizawa’s gaze cut between the two of them, sharp and assessing. “You should have brought him here sooner.”

Bakugou bristled. “We did the second we knew something was wrong.”

Recovery Girl didn’t weigh in on the argument—she was already checking Todoroki’s pulse, then pulling out a thermometer. She placed it gently under his tongue and waited, her expression unreadable.

When she pulled it out, she gave a small, unsurprised sigh. “A little over forty degrees Celsius.”

Mic let out a low whistle. “That’s… not great.”

“No, it’s not,” Recovery Girl agreed. She turned to Aizawa. “He’s staying overnight. I’ll start fluids, cool his temperature, monitor him until it stabilizes.”

Aizawa gave a curt nod. “Do it.”

Bakugou kept his arms clamped stubbornly across his chest, shoulders drawn tight as a wire. His jaw worked like he was chewing down words that refused to stay put. Seeing Todoroki with medical equipment clipped to him—IV line ready, blankets tucked up to his chin—felt wrong in a way Bakugou couldn’t shake. The guy was supposed to be solid, unshakable, a force that didn’t crack. And now, looking pale and fever-flushed on the cot, he seemed fragile enough that even breathing too hard near him might do damage. It stirred something tense and restless deep in Bakugou’s gut, the kind of feeling he didn’t like naming.

"No need to worry, dear. He'll be alright" Recovery Girl assured him, breaking him out of his thoughts. 

Bakugou  scoffed but didn't take his eyes off Todoroki. "Don't patronize me. I couldn't give less of a shit—" 

“Alright, if you’re not worried, then head back to the dorms,” Aizawa said suddenly, eyes landing squarely on Bakugou.

Bakugou hesitated—just for a second, though in his head it felt much longer. And in that beat of stillness, he knew Aizawa had caught it, the man’s sharp eyes pinning him like a bug on a board. The tiny flicker of doubt or reluctance had been seen, and Bakugou hated how obvious it must have been.

“Mic, walk him back.”

“I don’t need a damn escort,” Bakugou snapped.

But Present Mic was already ushering him towards the door. "C'mon, little listener."

"Don't touch me!" Bakugou growled, spinning toward the door and away from his teacher before anyone could say another word.

His movements were sharp, as if he could physically cut himself away from the scene by sheer force. He'd probably look a little frantic to anyone who knew him well enough to tell the difference between this and his typical angry march.  Like Aizawa. 

But whatever.

He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to glance back—not at Todoroki, nor at Aizawa—because he knew if he did, he might not leave at all.